


blessed art thou amongst women (and blessed is the fruit of your womb)

by staysaltydudes



Series: hail mary (amen) [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gore, Misogyny, Murder, Self-Harm, Tate has more issues than National Geographic FIGHT ME, Tate has to get it from somewhere??, Teenage Pregnancy, Underage Sex, mental health, mentions of rape/non-con, ok Constance Langdon is problematic and should be a content warning too, this show is a content warning in of itself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staysaltydudes/pseuds/staysaltydudes
Summary: "The next time her mom laughs, it isn’t bitter. It’s beautiful, musical, and it’s so infectious that they have to pull into a parking lot to let every single anxiety life from their shoulders with such a beautiful relief. Violet knows this isn’t the end. She knows that her life is irrevocably changed for good, but she’s finally a little braver than she was."Violet and Vivian Harmon have a lot in common in this alternative story to AHS: Murder House. First in a trilogy.





	1. Violet

**Author's Note:**

> A remix of my old story, False Prophet, on FF.Net. Not Beta'd. Please mind the tags.

There’s a big difference between bravery and stupidity. Violet, for all her fifteen years as a fountain of infinite wisdom, thinks she’s got the two down. “My fearless girl,” her mom would say as she’d run her hands through her hair with an absentminded smile on her face, before being pulled into a hug. Of all the things Violet misses from her parents’ hit-or-miss benign neglect are those hugs, especially when she feels her world is tumbling off its axis and she needs to be reminded that she’s brave, not stupid. Never stupid. Fuck, she used to be a member of MENSA back when she gave a damn and actually loved school. Of course, Violet is smart enough to know common sense and a high IQ didn’t always go hand-in-hand, but she still enjoys thinking she has both in the bag. She also enjoys throwing it in her parent’s faces when they decide to actually be present in her life.

If she’s stupid, then she’s just like them: _hypocritical._

That’s something she can’t live with.

It’s Halloween when she puts the stupidity-vs-bravery theory to the test. It’s not cold, but she wears a cardigan anyway. She says it’s because she’s cold natured when strangers, or her parents, ask about her clothing choices in a place like California, but it’s her armor. The sweater cardigans, the long dresses, and the leggings underneath hide the scars that cover her legs and her arms. Some are now almost white, while others are still an angry pink, but those angry little scars are hers. Her little reminder that she’s still there, even when she feels like she’s just going through the motions. She isn’t now, though; she’s currently making out with her dad’s patient as he gently coaxes her to lay on the sand. Her heart hammers in her chest as his hands brush against her small breast, and there’s a part of her—the inexperienced girl who has never been on a date, or kissed, or let alone made out with a guy in her life!—that wants to push him away, to stop. To be able to think about this, clearly, and examine what is happening because she needs control.

The part that wins, the part that urges Violet’s hand to boldly trail down his sweater covered chest to the front of his jeans to cup him in her hand, makes up her mind for her. All but suffocates the fearful part of her with a pillow because, holy shit, a boy is actually interested in her. A boy actually thinks she’s attractive enough to begin to grow hard and rut against her hand. “Jesus, Vi,” he breaks the kiss, his blond shaggy hair covering his face, nipping at her neck with almost an inhuman growl. He keeps saying her name—Violet, Violet, Violet—as his kisses and nips go southward and his calloused, all too cold hands lift up her dress. “Are you sure?” He asks with wide, dark eyes. “It hurts the first time.”

“I don’t care.” She says, already doing her best to shimmy out of her leggings, thanking God she decided against underwear for tonight. The way Tate’s breath hitched she supposes he’s happy, too. Fortune favors the bold, so as soon as her leggings and high-tops are discarded she wraps her legs around Tate and pulls him down to meet her lips once more. He wants to tease her, make her wet, but she’s been sopping since she heard his X-Rated confession to her dad; he had expected her to purr, but when his cold fingers make contact in between her legs she growls. He’s amused, but he doesn’t stop. Violet is pretty sure she’d kill him if he stops… but she wants more. Needs more.

She’s afraid if this is drawn out, she’ll never have the courage to go through with it. She’s Vivian Harmon’s fearless little girl: she has to go through with it. She wants to.

Tate moves his hand and pushes himself off of her to her chagrin, “Maybe we should stop. It’s your first time and—and I don’t—!” He looks almost ashamed. He’s hard, definitely ready, and his jeans and underwear are to his ankles, but something about him looks pained. Most of all, he looks as though this feeling—consideration—isn’t something he’s used to, and is trying to find the easiest way to adjust to it. “I want you. I do. I want you so badly, but…”

Violet takes one deep, deep breath. While she’s touched he’s putting her first, even amused at how foreign it seems for him to do so, she only runs her hands through his shaggy blond hair, urging him to lower himself down on her once more. Despite misgivings, he complies readily. “Then show me, asshole.” This earns her a huff of a laugh and all concerns about her comfort are out the door.

It happens fast. There’s pain, but nothing awful like she’s heard girls talk about, and it fades pretty fast. He comes first, but makes sure she does before he rolls off of her, away from the fire they made to keep warm. It seems laughable, considering it’s in the eighties, but Violet thinks it is romantic. She thinks that _this_ is romantic, even as she puts on her tights and can feel his seed— _cum_ —inside her, dripping, along with blood.

“Thanks.”

It’s a dumb response, but it’s the only thing she can think of. Tate isn’t offended; he gives a huff of a laugh before pulling her close, her cheek on his broad shoulder and his on her head.

She doesn’t feel any different. She feels happy. Happier than the endorphins razorblades or nicotine gives her. Violet can feel his hot breath as he speaks to her about school, life, how everything is somehow smaller than what you make it out to be—but all she can focus on are his lips. Maybe she has an addictive personality or something, because she’s certain she can easily become addicted to his lips.

“Good job, Tate.” A voice breaks the haze she’s found herself in, causing Tate’s body to stiffen. “We’ve been waiting for _years_ for you to show your face.” Violet turns around a group of teenagers, seemingly around their age, with possibly the most high-end horror FX makeup job Violet’s ever seen. She has half the mind to compliment them, but their faces aren’t kind, or friendly. Beneath mangled visages is a type of rage Violet’s only seen once—with Tate and Leah in that basement.

This doesn’t seem to bother Tate. He’s still stiffens, his hold a little more tighter than she likes with his arms still around her, but Violet plays it off as some social anxiety thing. “Nice costumes. You know, there’s a whole beach guys.”

Two girls and three boys. One wore a letter jacket with a bullet hole in his head; the other, a cheerleader, with a bullet hole where her heart would be; a goth with her brains spewing out; a punkish-rebel covered in blood; and one without a mouth. Again, the FX is superior, pretty bad ass, but the vibes—and smells—they’re giving turns Violet’s insides. When Tate suggests they leave, she doesn’t complain.

 

* * *

 

 

After the ordeal with the Dead Breakfast Club—Violet is pretty proud of that coinage, if she says so herself—she hasn’t seen Tate in weeks. “I have no idea who they are!” He had claimed with a pinched face, shrugging helplessly. “Probably some dumb jocks that just want to be mean.” Violet bought it—buys it—because Westfield High is filled with people who enjoy being ugly just to be ugly, but there’s a sliver of doubt she nurses in the back of her mind. His posture, the darting of his dark eyes, even how well they seemed to know Tate. It’s as if her intuition, that normally is dead on, is screaming at her to open her eyes. Violet doesn’t want to. Scared to.

Violet is afraid of the axis being set off course if she does.

“Violet—school!” Her mom yells. Her honey colored hair is sprawled out on her pillow like a halo, her hands on her stomach, as brandy colored eyes stare at the ceiling. She could fake sick, or just skip and go by a bookstore, even a vinyl record store, if she wants. It’s Friday. Who cares if she skips another day? “Violet!”

Apparently, her mom.

The woman rapt on her door, as if taking her anger out on the furniture than the person she should, her father, in emphasis as she says her name again. “Violet Harmon—”

She swings her legs off her bed and makes her way to the door, her sock covered feet shuffling, and opens it almost violently. “I heard you the first time!” She snaps at her mouth, but immediately regrets it when she sees her face. Vivian, who Violet considers the most beautiful woman in the whole world, has bags under her eyes. They are red and puffy and normally tan, freckled skin that held some ethereal glow looks—sunken. Drained. Violet wants to punch her dad in the throat. Repeatedly. She wants to get a chainsaw and saw off his dick. She wants to right the wrongs done to her mother who, when she isn’t focused on her failing marriage, is usually consistent at parenting. Mom isn’t even dressed for the day—she’s only in her pajamas.

Her mom is miserable and she knows she isn’t helping.

Fuck. She’s weak, too.

“Mom…” she tries, but Vivian just shakes her head and walks away. Violet doesn’t blame her.

Her dad. Her mom. Now, it looks like she’s pushing Tate away, too.

She can feel snot drip from her nose and notices how blurry her eyes are becoming, so she slams the door petulantly before resting her back against it. She has the urge to slide down, hide her face in her knees, and cry—all she wants to do now is cry and scream—but forces her angst down a tad. No matter if she likes it or not, she really does need to go to school. It doesn’t take long for her to shower, moisturize, and then put on her armor of cardigans, dresses, tights and sneakers before slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She’s ready. Her mom doesn’t offer her to take her to school, and her dad isn’t even staying with them anymore. If anything, at least she can focus on work and not her shit home life?

“Come with me!” A familiar southern accent takes her out of her reverie, grabbing her roughly by the arm.

“Like hell I am, you dumb bitch!” Mind your manners, Violet, she hears her mom scolding her in her head, but why should she? Her neighbor is the one who should mind her manners. “Let go!” Maybe if she starts screaming stranger danger her mom would notice? Fat chance.

What Constance says next wipes away Violet’s attitude quicker than a slap on her face, which she could tell is what the older woman so desperately wants to do. “Adelaide is dead.” She spits it at her like a curse; what is even worse, from the horrified expression on Violet’s face, is that the passing of her impish neighbor strikes a chord in Violet’s heart. For the second time today, her eyes become blurry. “What—how?” Is all Violet can say, besides allowing herself to be dragged into Constance’s house than make her way to school like she set out for.

She shares a cigarette with the older woman as she goes on about Adelaide. Hit by a car, she says, but Violet knows Constance blames her for encouraging her. “It was a cruel thing, but I suppose you were just trying to be kind.” A pause when dark eyes start to glare daggers, the southern drawl almost dangerous. “Weren’t you?”

Violet nods, doe eyes wider than normal, as she takes another drag. Exhaling the smoke, it is only by happenstance does she notice a picture on the kitchen counter. It’s Adelaide, smiling, with a young man in a sweater with his arm wrapped around her. Her blood turns icy when she drops the cigarette, causing Constance to notice the expression.

“Tate’s my son.”  Before Violet can ask how, since she’s really old enough to be his grandmother and not his son, Constance continues, “he… he’s dead, Violet. You know as well as I that,” she raises her pointer finger to the direction of her home, voice lowering for dramatic effect. “That house is more than meets the eye.”

Dead.

Tate.

“Bullshit!” Violet hisses under her breath, pushing herself from the counter, but Constance’s wrinkled hand grabs her, stalling her from her departure. “Are you so arrogant to assume that this reality is the only one you live in?” Violet stiffens as Constance goes on. “There’s more to this world than just Heaven and Earth, little girl, and it’s about time you start opening your eyes when it comes to my boy.”

 


	2. Violet

Violet misses first period bending over a toilet, expelling her breakfast, and possibly last night’s pot-roast that Moira made. It was supposed to be another family dinner, another lie her parents wanted to believe to be true, but it turned out to just be Violet and two empty seats. Maybe this nausea is due to stress? Stress can cause vomit, right?

The toilet flushes and she spends the next fifteen minutes staring at her reflection. There’s dark circles under her eyes, just like her mom, and no matter how her honey locks can hide her face she still looks like a skeleton. She blinks, and there’s Tate, standing behind her; his makeup makes him look like a skeleton, and he’s dressed in a black overcoat.

Violet blinks again, and suddenly he’s right by her, his breath hot on her neck.

“Are you scared now?”

No. No, she isn’t; she’s her mom’s brave little girl. Nothing scares her. She squints her eyes, doing her best to control her breathing when she isn’t able to grab her razor and let the cuts bleed out all the anxieties bubbling around in her head.

She reopens her eyes a third time, and he isn’t there. No one is. Just Violet and her breathing.

Twisting on the faucet she ducks down to splash the cool water on her face, rinsing her mouth out even if it still tastes like bile, and straightens up once she turns the faucet off. Eyes peer once more into the mirror and, once again, he isn’t there.

_I’m fucking losing it._

Wiping her hands on her overlong shirt, she makes her way out of the restroom and into the barren hallway of Westfield. This isn’t the first time she’s seen things, if she’s honest, just like it isn’t the first time she’s lost her lunch. Maybe Leah is right? Maybe the devil is alive in her house and making her already fucked up family that much worse.

Yeah. Like the devil really wants to make her lose her lunch when he can, oh, do so much other shit?

_Like drive you insane?_

If it wouldn’t prove her lack of sanity, Violet would totally flip herself off.

First period was now a waste, and Violet figures second period could be, too? Besides, third period is Algebra and she’s one of the rare freshman girls that actually enjoy it. There’s something comforting knowing that sometimes the answer never changes, no matter how many variables there are. It’s why she likes Physics, because there are constants. Yeah, you can write a psych paper on how abandonment issues reflect her favorite scholastic choices—she gets it.

She enters the library—a home away from home, honestly; even if the librarian in the wheelchair doesn’t ever meet her eyes, and the WiFi sucks, she’s still surrounded by books and books can’t hurt her—and doesn’t even bother to check in. She, at first, figures she’ll make her way to the non-fiction section and just curl up with some autobiography.

Violet finds her way to the computers instead.

W-E-S-T-F-I-E-L-D H-I-G-H— **enter**.

Brandy colored eyes squint as Google’s first suggestion—almost surprised that her mother didn’t even think to look it up—pops up in italics. _Did you mean Westfield High School Massacre?_ **Click**. Over a thousand results pop up. A thousand. She clicks the first, second, third link, and they all have the same information.

**Click**.

_Fifteen High School students were murdered today, April 20, 1994, by largely suspected Tate Michael Landon, Junior, and ex-track member. Among the dead were: Stephanie Boggs, Stanley Amir, Kelsey Jackson, Jay Cannavo, Michael Rivera, Daniella Levesque, Josh Sathre, Mark Finstein, Luke Mazcy, Chloe Stapleton, Kevin Gedman, Andrew Meyers, Amir Stanley, Kyle Greenwell, Jason Mueller, and Jennifer Wright._ Brandy eyes dart to the plague on the library with the fifteen dead, memorialized, and Violet can only assume something significant happened in this library.

_Suspected shooter killed by SWAT Team_ is the caption, but above it is a picture of Tate. All shaggy hair, bright brown eyes, and a charming smile. If she was at home she’d throw her laptop across the room and hide under her bedsheets, but she isn’t. She’s in the school library. She can say its coincidence. She can say it’s all a hoax. She can even think that this is a photo of Tate’s father— _he told her he’s seventeen, right?_ —because he’d be born around the same time… right?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She doesn’t bother to go to her locker and grab her bag. Doesn’t even bother to sneak out of school like she usually does.

Violet just bolts out, ignoring the librarian, and doesn’t stop until she’s back inside the gate of her new house.

“Violet?”

Her mom missed breakfast this morning, didn’t bother to rush her off to school, but the ginger haired Harmon turns mid-hanging up linens by clotheslines on the string—more natural than a washing machine or drier—to pinch her face in concern at her daughter. “What are you doing home so early?” Violet’s vision becomes hazy, her mom a bit fuzzy, as the figure of her mother makes their way towards her. “Vi? Vi, you’re scaring me!”

_Aren’t you scared of everything, mom?_

The only thing she hears before her body hits the grass is her mom saying her name.

 

* * *

 

 

Violet wakes up in the hospital with an IV in her arm. “Vi?” It’s her mom. She knows that voice. Turning her neck slowly to the sound of that voice, and mostly since it’s stiff from disuse, she squints at the woman sitting by her bedside vigil. Her mom looks even more worried than she was before; ginger locks in a disarray, still in her pajamas, and the only thing to retain her modesty is a gray robe over her body. “Hey there,” she greets, and Violet notices her mom’s eyes are glossy, and her voice watery.

Shit.

It’s only when she feels calloused hands caressing her wrist does she notice she’s in a hospital gown, in a hospital, and most importantly her scars are visible. She tenses, getting ready for some psycho-babble lecture, but Violet remembers that this isn’t her dad. This is her mom. All her mom does, even if she notices how Violet’s wide eyes dart to her bare arms, is lean over and kiss her forehead.

Oh, she’ll probably get a lecture, and certain conversations aren’t over, but the key difference between her mom and her dad? Her mom doesn’t spring things on her. She’s different from her or her dad; her mom assesses things, sure, but she’s far more patient.

“I’m sorry,” Violet manages, even if she isn’t entirely certain if she’s telling the truth. She feels like it’s something she should say, but it’s hollow. What’s worse is there is a tiny part of her that wants her mom to be tear stained and worried; that wants her dad to lecture her about depression or threaten to send her off; she wants that because she’s lonely and she needs them. She wants them to hurt like she is. Violet’s face crumbles and her mother makes her way in her hospital bed and allows Violet to cry into her shoulder. Her mom says nothing, just lets her cry. When she’s discharged hours later and is driven home by her stone faced father, she still says nothing.

“You don’t have to sleep with me,” Violet tells her mom once she’s safe and sound in her bedroom, at her own house, curled into a ball beside her mom after she reaches over and turns off the lamp by her nightstand. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to take care of your babies or something?”

Her mom simply smiles and places another kiss on her forehead. “I am taking care of my baby. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t think this is the best time to tell her.” Violet can hear her mom sigh, obviously exhausted with whatever her and her dad are arguing about now. From her spot on the steps, still in her pajamas, there’s a heated debate between the two people that are supposed to be taking care of her. “You’ve seen her arms, Viv. Clearly this past year, the move—everything—has had a large impact on her. We don’t even know if she—”

Her mother cuts it: “The blood work came back positive, Ben. Our fifteen year old is pregnant, probably by that boy—”

“Tate?” Her dad huffs out a laugh, “I still think there’s a mix up. There’s no way Vi—our Vi—could be pregnant. I’m more concerned about our actual problem, the cutting, the skipping meals, the truancy, then the fact that she may-or-may not be pregnant.”

Violet understands what they’re saying. She hears voices, understands that it’s English and she’s very fluent in it, but she still can’t make the connection. It takes a second or two, but she finally repeats the word she keeps hearing over and over in her head before it clicks. Pregnant? She just got her period!

Spotting doesn’t count.

She really wishes her inside voice would go fuck themselves.

Violet makes her way into the kitchen. Her dad is on the opposite side of the island, leaning over, while her mom stares at an unused pregnancy test. “Did you sleep alright, kiddo?” Dad tries, but his smile is forced. Violet nods. It’s the first time in a while she just…slept. No nightmares, no feeling of being watched, but just slept. “Want something to eat?”

Violet stares at the pregnancy test and her mom notices. “Vi, baby, come here.” Arms beckon her and Violet doesn’t fight it; she’s lonely, and weirded out, and she could use being coddled after being neglected for months. “While we are going to have a very, very long discussion about your…coping, there is something more pressing.”

“Viv,” her dad warns, but mom ignores him.

“Just… Be honest with me. Your dad and I,” mom gives a warning glance to her dad, who stares down at the marble counter, “won’t judge you. It’s normal, even healthy, to have sex. I—we—would’ve probably liked for you to be a little older than fifteen, but I was seventeen when I first had sex.”

Oh shit. She’d rather have a long lecture about suicide prevention, or questions why she did what she did, or even about religion or how school is—not the sex talk!

In a effort to dodge this conversation all together, and figuring out what her mom is leading up to, she grabs the stick and marches up to her restroom. Violent isn’t going to comment on how the medicine cabinet and the drawers are all locked; she also isn’t going to mention how the lock on her bedroom door, or her bathroom door, is missing. She must’ve slept hard to not hear that. Right. Enough about how her parents clearly don’t trust her to off herself—and to be honest, she doesn’t blame them, even if it was never about suicide to begin with—and pees on the stick.

After twenty Mississippi’s, there’s a knock on her door. “Vi? Can I come in?”

“There’s no lock, mom, so sure.”

_Did you have to do that? It’s not like you gave them much of a choice._

Fuck off.

Her mom, clearly choosing her battles with grace, slips inside. Vi is decent, no longer squatting and urinating, and flushes the toilet. “How long do we have to wait?” She knows there’s no reason to. If she thinks Tate is, well, a ghost, then it’s not possible. She’s home free. All she’ll have to worry about is her parents walking on egg shells around her.

“Just a moment.”

Then two minutes pass and Violet snatches the stick. Doesn’t look at it, doesn’t need to, when she hands it to her mom.

Silence. No one says anything.

“Right. Not pregnant, just deflowered, now can I—”

“—it’s positive.”

Wait. What?

 

* * *

 

 

The next week is spent at home. She’s basically being homeschooled, now. Violet can’t complain. When she isn’t vomiting, she’s sleeping, and when she isn’t sleeping she’s forcing herself to take some gross Pre-Natal vitamins her OB-GYN makes her take. Her name is Dr. Mansfield and she’s, like, fifty, with an obvious fake tan and dark roots in her short bleached blonde hair. Violet doesn’t care for her, but she takes a play from her mom’s book and picks her battles.

“Why aren’t you upset?” She asks her mom in the car after her appointment, absentmindedly rubbing her own still-flat stomach when her eyes dart to her mother’s huge one. “I mean, I figured you would be pissed.”

Her mom gives a bitter laugh. “I was. Not just about your… condition,” mom still can’t say she’s pregnant and Violet doesn’t blame her. It doesn’t feel real to her at all. When asked about her options, something inside her told her that she wants to keep it. She isn’t sure she wants to raise it, or give it away to some parents who need a child, but the word abortion sent chills down her spine. “I’m mad at myself. Me and your dad weren’t there for you when you needed us, so you turned to a razor blade, and then unprotected sex—the point is, while I am upset, I’m more upset at us for being such shitty parents.” Violet can’t help but smirk. “What?”

Violet looks as they pass palm trees and body builders on rollerblades. “You said shitty.”

_Don’t say shit, Violet, I hate that word_.

The next time her mom laughs, it isn’t bitter. It’s beautiful, musical, and it’s so infectious that they have to pull into a parking lot to let every single anxiety life from their shoulders with such a beautiful relief.

Violet knows this isn’t the end. She knows that her life is irrevocably changed for good, but she’s finally a little braver than she was.

She’s finding her anchor, the girl she used to be before the death of her baby brother, and she thinks maybe her mom is finding herself, too. She’s comforted with this thought that, after chicken noodle soup for dinner, she makes her way back to her room to crawl under the covers and sleep. As soon as she pulls the sheets to get in, a voice stops her in her tracks.

“When were you gonna tell me, Vi?”

Tate stands in front of her bed, as if he appeared out of thin air, with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing the same clothes he did when they first met. His voice is stony, almost void of emotion, but her eyes notice how wide his black eyes are and the redness around them. Has he been crying? _He’s been avoiding her!_ “Is it true?”

Shit.


End file.
